


I Only Ever Wanted To Be Your Equal

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Angst, Good!Loki, Gratuitous Use of Old Norse Endearments, Happy Ending, Loki In The Void, M/M, Magic, No seriously. Lots of Angst, Nobody Likes Loki. Not Even Loki, Pining, Reworking Cannon So It Doesn't Hurt, Stalking, Tesseract
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never wanted to be king. He knew that role was Thor’s, but the god of thunder was rash and would need guidance. Loki had thought to secure a place at his side, where he could offer advice—he knows the people of Asgard so well.<br/>Yes, that had been his choice vision for so many long years. Thor, a mighty and powerful king revered by his people, and Loki, cherished, at Thor’s left hand.</p><p>Inspired by, but not particularly related to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/277337">Seeking Comfort</a> by BloodRaevynn</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Ever Wanted To Be Your Equal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Seeking Comfort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/277337) by [BloodRaevynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodRaevynn/pseuds/BloodRaevynn). 



> Notes on Norse terms used:
> 
> sváss - beloved.  
> dýrr - precious.
> 
> argr - unmanly/cowardly/womanish which was taken from [Seeking Comfort](http://archiveofourown.org/works/277337) by BloodRaevynn, the work which basically bred this plotbunny.

It wasn’t magic. A skill, undoubtably, but not one of his magic ones. As such, it was fallible. 

Floating in the void, he had no indication of time passing. His internal sense told him four days, but where once he trusted that indefinitely, he held no stock by it now. 

How had he failed so completely? _I never wanted the throne. I only wanted to be your equal._

At least he knew why he was an outcast now. Dirty Jötunn scum—they’d probably whispered it behind his back since the day he had arrived. He closed his eyes in the blackness and let the whimper building in his throat release. 

He’d planned everything to what he thought was perfection. In the panicked hours after Thor’s exile he’d plotted everything, his father lying under golden light in the deepest Odinsleep he’d undergone. He’d gotten near everything right—Sif and the Warriors Three concluding his betrayal, Heimdall betraying and deserting his post, bringing Laufey and his team of Jötunns, betraying and destroying them both, Thor returning from his exile triumphant after defeating the Destroyer he’d sent, destroying Jötunheim and being heralded as a hero. Except for the last, it had all gone exactly to plan. 

What had he gotten wrong? What had he done to earn the horrified distrust in Thor’s face and his father’s stern and unforgiving “No.” His brother’s hand gripping the staff, the only thing holding him tethered to the world. Such frustration and disappointment from the only two people he had looked to for approval. His fingers hadn’t slipped. He had let go. 

One less Jötunn was no mark on the world, and if anyone spoke of Loki Laufeyson, it would only be with hatred. His convoluted plans could be summoned in the Chamber of Truths—one who sought it need only ask. He wanted his innocence accessible once his father had woken. 

He had never wanted to be king. He knew that role was Thor’s, but the god of thunder was rash and would need guidance. Loki had thought to secure a place at his side, where he could offer advice—he knows the people of Asgard so well. 

Yes, that had been his choice vision for so many long years. Thor, a mighty and powerful king revered by his people, and Loki, cherished, at Thor’s left hand. 

He winced, as he always did, and curled in on himself. His _left_ hand. All the sneers and mocking of _argr_ from the court in Asgard, called such for his sorcery, true beyond their comprehension. He wanted Thor, as a companion for life and not how he should desire his brother. 

But there was the point, wasn’t it? Loki was no son of Odin, as he had believed his whole life. He was Jötunn scum, prince of the lowest race of in the Nine Realms. If any hopes had survived his own crisp realism, they had been dashed by that. 

He thanked the fact there was no light in the void, nothing to see his skin twist blue and shameful. He was no Asgardian and it was an insult to the realm that he had been allowed to believe himself one of them. 

They had all known the truth—must have to hold him at such lengths away from the trust and commeraderie with which they embraced each other. Loki’s only real connection with the Aenir had been through Thor. While with the god of thunder, Loki was tentatively accepted as an accompaniment. Never a friend or trusted man-in-arms. 

He had thought it was his abnormal behaviours and penchant for mischief, but when he discovered the truth from himself it was only too easy to see it in everyone else’s eyes. 

Odin must have thought it a splendid joke—spoils of war raised to think himself one of their own, hated and mistrusted by all who came across him. Thor, his _sváss_ , must have known but come to care for him regardless. It was the only explanation that made sense of his often-warm, but sporadic aloofness. And to think before all of this he had dared to hope the behaviour showed Thor _returned_ his feelings and desires. 

There were precious few times where could misinterpret his brother’s actions that way. The last time... 

_The Aenir had been in celebration of the coronation in the morning—Thor’s ascension to the throne. The Feast had been made by the god’s own hands, his gift to his future subjects, the expectation that Thor was to fast and not partake in the fruits of his own labour. The same was expected for the fervent orgy taking place at that very moment._

_Loki, in sympathy for his brother’s plight (publically, to cement the court’s tradition that he was not a subject of the court as their prince) had joined Thor’s fast. He stayed alongside his brother as he surveyed first the dining guests and now there more carnal entertainments._

_He may have believed it was too soon for his brother to ascend—Thor was still too brash and impatient, had not yet learnt to listen to advice. Loki was not yet ready to have his sváss just that much further from his grasping reach. He had planned a small prank to teach Thor some humility at the cusp of his reign, but that was of no consequence now._

_Still. He would stand beside Thor’s side through everything. As they passed Sif and the Warriors Three entangled in a tryst, Thor stopped some distance away to stare in unbridled surprise. A note of confusion and discomfort crossed his face and Loki rested a hand on his arm._

_“Worry not, brother,” he murmured quietly so the occupied quartet would not heed an interuption, “Lady Sif will be well-satisfied by her partners.”_

_Thor had turned to him, bewilderment painted across his face. Loki had rather expected more upset—Sif had always been the natural choice for Thor’s queen-consort when he ascended the throne. When as much had become obvious, Loki had stolen Sif’s golden hair in a fit of jealousy. Cutting off the locks and enchanting them to grow back the colour of blackened earth had been a petty trick to the fierce warrioress, but he had spent a gruelling decade hunting down a dwarf to remake her hair only to return with her no longer desiring it back._

_“How do you know this?” Thor demanded. Loki resisted the urge to sigh. His sváss could never say or ask—he had to grandstand or demand with every word that passed his lips._

_“The Warriors Three are all equally matched in battle,” Loki began, “for they spar with each other to improve upon their skills.” He gave Thor a pointed look, and the thunderer looked continually perplexed. Loki sighed, and clarified: “their carnal talents are much the same.”_

_Thor had boomed a laugh then, earning a glare from the quartet at the break in their concentration. Clapping a hand over his brother’s shoulder, he smiled and led them away. “Come, my brother, we shall retreat. It is one thing to force a hungry man to sit at a table laden with food he has been forced to prepare.” And another, Loki supposed, to watch his friends bed the future queen-consort before his very eyes._

_Instead of speaking the thought aloud, he followed Thor from the hall and into one of the more secluded window-nooks. “I feel your pain on that matter, brother,” he pointed out. “Not only do I share your fast, I was forced to stand by and instruct you in the kitchens, lest you burn half the palace to the ground.”_

_Thor boomed another laugh then and sat on a well-cushioned seat, sprawling his limbs and barely leaving space for Loki to perch alongside him. “You should hold your tongue on the matter, Loki,” Thor groused, “else you’ll submit me to the scrutiny of a king who cannot provide for his own court.”_

_Loki snorted a laugh. “You doubt that Mother did the very same thing for Father on the eve of his coronation?” _

_Thor boomed again. “I see your point, brother.” His empty stomach gave a growling rumble and he frowned as he rubbed a callused hand over the opinionated area. “Though two days in the kitchens has left me starved like a mortal.”_

_Loki scoffed and gave his sváss a disapproving look. “You could have asked any subject to fix you a modest meal. Your fast is not a requirement of the celebration, only that you cannot sample your own labours.” _

_“Any subject?” Thor repeated, eyes sparkling with laughter. Loki nodded, wary, and found himself not entirely surprised when Thor demanded: “Loki Odinson, I beg you make a humble offering for your future king’s appetite.”_

_He did, however, roll his eyes and give the thunderer an unhappy look. With a twisting gesture, he had a vine grow up from the ground and curl over his brother’s lax form, purple-red fruits growing to dangle just out of the reach of his brother’s laughing lips. They were unnaturally perfect—firm and round, filled with fruit—the juice sweet and just this side of bitter. Crafted exactly how Thor preferred his grapes._

_He inclined his head towards the vine, a mocking curl to his lips to dissuade his want to kneel at the thunderer’s feet in supplication. “A humble offering, Thor Odinson.”_

_His sváss had given him a dazzling grin that twisted his stomach and had his chest aching with want. “I thank you, Loki Odinson,” he returned, voice imperious and commanding. Lifting his head, he set his teeth around the bottom most fruit and tugged it from its stem. Loki flushed with embarassment and looked away—out the window to the celebratory Asgard. “You should be thankful, brother,” Thor commented, “that I do not desire my meal peeled of its skin.”_

_“Had I thought you desired that,” Loki returned, “I would have grown them skinless as well as seedless.”_

_Thor laughed again and returned to devouring the vine without moving his hands from their loose curl on his sprawled knees. Loki was forced to keep tugging his attention away from the sight lest he react to it unfavourably. Outside the curtain he could have an excuse of an enticing sight catching his eyes—inside, secluded with only his sváss for company would be much more difficult to explain._

_Eventually he settled deep into the seat and watched the stars glittering above their mighty city._

Loki threw his eyes open to the darkness, escaping the wicked grip of his memory. There was no other company but his thoughts in the void and, even as he tried to escape the memory, he remembered. _He remembered waking up, curled against the thunder god’s shoulder, a strong left arm warm as it wrapped around his waist. Thor’s neck had been inclined so it rested on his own, warm breath ghosting across his hair._

_He’d fled, praying he had not already grown addicted to the embrace he so desperately craved._

Alone, staring in the darkness, Loki wept. 

~~~ 

Loki understood his first mistake was falling in love with Thor. The next, he decided after what felt like a week's contemplation, was letting the Jötunn into Asgard as a petty trick. From there, his mistakes were many. Trying to play double agent with the Jötunn, when he'd already had the Aenir distrust him. Too easy to believe he had already betrayed them. 

His brilliant skills of predicting the actions of people had failed him, and his magic here was for naught. He had fought, desperate and angry, against the boundaries of the Void trying to slip into the paths only he knew. 

The gaps between the worlds, the shadow of the Bifrost, he had traversed in a fool's freedom and they were lost to him now. Thor, his _sváss_ had destroyed the rainbow bridge in a bid to save the filth of Jötunheim, sealing the paths between worlds for good. Inadvertantly trapping Loki in the void until his sorcery expired and he ceased to exist. Any other being would die too soon - would need to feed and breathe for their energy. His arts would sustain him far beyond any Asgardian's limit, but they would expire eventually. He would die here, and it seemed the rest of his days would be tormented by thougts of his _sváss_ _._ His golden Thor, future king of Asgard, who had destroyed the Bifrost and separated himself from his beloved mortal just to save the land of his sworn enemies. 

_Why?_ He thought painfully. Why would he do such a thing? Jötunn were scum. Everyone knew it to be so. It was really no wonder the Thunderer could never have loved him. Even his precious _Mortal_ was better than Loki Laufeyson. 

But now Thor would have to turn back to Sif as his consort, trapped in Asgard to pine away after his Mortal. By the time the women had weaved another Bifrost, the mortal woman would be long dead. 

As would Loki. They would both die with Thor's name on their lips-or the woman was a fool of the highest degree. His _sváss_ was brash and foolhardy, this much was true, but he was loyal beyond compare. If his friendships were any indiction, his lover would be the most cherished woman in the nine realms. 

Thor would pine for her beyond her lifetime, loving her for centuries if not all of his time. _Wretched, lucky woman._ What Loki would have given for a fraction of that adoration, for his _sváss_ to feel for him an atom of the love he felt. 

He allowed himself to dwell in the memory of waking in Thor's arms. For only moments, warm and content in the Thunderer's mighty grip. He would give his life for the chance to sleep in Thor's arms--in his bed. Carnally satisfied or not, the closeness would content him into eternity. 

Not that he had much life left to offer. A threemonth at most, static in the void. Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes. 

Thor would barely spare a thought for his Jötunn imposter of a brother. His severing of the Bifrost would only be the act that cut him off from his precious mortal, unless it was exhalted as the act that exiled the Jötunn scum for ever. The thunder god would not think of it like that however. Beneath the honour as he was, Thor had thought of him like a brother. Enough not to celebrate his passing, but even Thor could not _mourn_ a Jötunn. 

Loki gave what sigh he could - the muscles heaved and clenched with the movement, but there was no air to breathe in the void. 

Would thoughts of his _sváss_ torment him until he died? He had many sins and mistakes to contemplate, yet they had been catologued and set aside within the first few hours of his occupation in the void. 

He suppose it only spoke of his Jötunn nature, proof of his inevitable scum. Everything he had done to wrong all he knew, yet all his solitary thoughts revolved around his own foolish love. 

For the first time since his initial failure, he reached for the shadow paths he had so often travelled. He did not even know if they touched the void when they had existed. He supposed they rather shouldn't--what use would a void be if you could be pulled from it? He could not feel the clinging shadow at the edge of his fingers that told him he had found them. 

He not-sighed again, opening his eyes and glaring at the darkness. 

What use were his powers in an endless void? The summoning of objects at will, the stepping between words like a shade, the false projections of... 

He sat up abruptly, gasping in nothing. The projections! He could not shift himself--he had already working himself past exhaustion in attempts at that. But he could try focusing himself through a projection. 

He closed his eyes again. The tingling, half-aware sense that was his projection when he was within its - for lack of better term - consciousness. He appeared in Thor's bedchambers, and instantly he knew something was wrong. He knew the layout of the Thunderer's rooms, and though the god himself was sprawled in the sheets, he was on edge. Everything was mirrored. The windows should have been to his left, not the right. The carvings were backwards, even the words of blessing mirrored. 

Thor stirred in his bed, and even those movements were backwards. He turned away, agitated, and saw the room as it should be. The gilded mirror was a perfect reflection of his _sváss_ _'_ s bed chamber as they should have been. Including the absence of his projection. Shivering, the realisation struck him: he was trapped in the mirror world. 

He'd thought it only legend. But then, he'd thought the same of The Void. He sobbed, the sound echoing and tinny in the large, open room. 

Thor stirred in his bed once more, a frowning creasing his handsome face. He murmured, and it echoed loud and wooden in the room: " _Dýrr_." 

"Dreaming about the mortal, dearest Thor?" Loki asked wistfully. 

"Jane?" Thor mumbled uncertainly. 

"Ahh, what I wouldn't do to have you dream of me, my _sváss_ _._ " The Jötunn imposter crawled across the fur throws of the thunderer's bed and curled upon the bare, muscular chest. 

A tight arm curled around his waist and held him painfully tight. Thor hummed in contentment and the callused hand that weilded Mjolnir lifted to trace the jaw curled against his shoulder. " _Dýrr_ _,_ " Thor repeated again, content. 

Loki expressed his grief in unrestrained tears. The touches felt like ghost-prints, and the words were meant for his mortal woman. Still - it was everything Loki hadn't allowed himself to hope but couldn't help to dream. 

He fell asleep in his _sváss_ _'_ arms and woke up in the void. 

~~~ 

He strained and raged in the airless silence, would have been screaming could he breathe or sound. The collapsed back into a weightless slump and glared at the darkness. His limbs felt weak and useless, and he lifted a trembling hand to pinch the skin of his arm. A sharp pain shot through his arm, lingering in his assaulted flesh. 

He dashed at tears on his face and closed his eyes. Focusing, tightening, he projected himself back to Asgard. Thor stood at the broken edge of the rainbow bridge beside Heimdall. 

"She waits for you," the deep, blurred-edge voice of the Bifrost Guardian sounded. "Works with the shield to build a Bifrost." 

Thor's voice, when he spoke, was taught and strained--begrieved. No doubt by longing for his precious mortal. "My brother," he said, "do you see him?" 

"Loki slipped between the cracks of my sight," Heimdall replied. 

Thor nodded tightly, the fingers clenched around the handle of Mjolnir rubbing together unconciously. "Will you keep an eye?" He asked softly. 

"Of course, milord," the Bifrost Guardian agreed. 

The thunderer bowed slightly and turned, walking past the invisible Loki and down the cleaved path back to Asgard. His chest ached at the sight of his _sváss_ _'_ face--moreso than usual due to the obvious grief marked in his features. The eyes red and agitated, by tears though there were no tracks visible on the pained face. His hair was neatly combed, but the beard was unkempt. 

"Oh, Thor," Loki sighed into the wind, "you grieve for the mortal so acutely." 

Heimdall turned his head slightly, but Loki teleported his projection before noting anything else. He appeared in Thor's favoured meeting hall, and the Warriors Three were already present around the circling fire. Sif stood at the window, watching the thunder god's progress across the rainbow bridge. 

"Our friend Thor is begrieved today," Fandral complained loudly. 

"He's taunted by dreams," Sif retorted angrily. "He dreams his _dýrr_ is present and wakes to see it is a lie. You would be tormented too." 

"Perhaps you should provide him comfort in his bed then!" Hogan laughed. 

She turned fiery eyes on the warrior, who shrunk a little away from the glare. "Would you have me dishonour his grief so entirely? I would strike you down for that myself if I would not have to explain to Thor why I had done it." She turned sharply back to the window, freezing a bit. The eyes of her reflection in the window stared at him in shock, and in an instant he rendered his projection invisible. His head spun at the effort and his hold on the mirror world wavered--the black of the void shadowing across his vision. 

When it passed, Sif was looking in his direction with confusion. She turned back to the window and squinted at it, but he was assured in his invisibilty. 

A moment later, Thor entered. He glared at the gathered warriors and crossed to a familiar enclosure by a window. It was the same one they had passed the eve of Thor's coronation, and Loki supposed it had to be a favourite of his though he hadn't known this before. 

He did not sink into the comfortable seat - probably did not want the reminder of that night - but stood by the glass and glared out at the gleaming city. The Warriors Three stayed silent, and Thor turned to glare at them. "Do not let my presence interrupt, friends," he growled pointedly, "continue on with your talks." 

"We were speaking of our concern for you, milord," Sif answered quietly. "Your grieving for-" 

"You need not concern yourself with that!" Thor barked harshly, clenching his right fist and rubbing together the calluses. Loki frowned as he crossed closer to his agitated brother. That was not one of his nervous habits. Loki knew them all, had spent years cataloguing them, shuffling as they changed and organising what they told about his state of mind. 

_Oh, my sváss_ _,_ he thought, tracing his fingers along the flexing hand, _what has your mortal done to you?_ He sighed, daring to make a sound in the close proximity to a window of the mirror world. 

Thor twitched at the noise and glared around him suspiciously. He took a deep breath of air, and a stricken expression crossed his face. He turned back to the window and Loki could see his eyes welling. The trickster ached and pressed his projection’s form against the tense figure of his _sváss_ and rested his head against the armoured shoulders. 

What he wouldn’t do to take away Thor’s grief... 

He took a sharp breath when he realised his task. Shivering, he came around to face his _sváss_ and looked at his begrieved eyes. Pressing close, he pressed a lingering, ghostly kiss to the thunderer’s taut lips. 

_I shall do what I must._

Turning on his heel, he let the projection slip away. 

~~~ 

He tormented the father-figure of Thor’s mortal for days, appearing in his reflection and whispering to him. The mortal was so easily played (as all Midgardians were) and by the time he was summoned to the headquarters of the shield by The Fury, he was almost bent to obedience. 

Loki hadn’t expected the tesseract to be in the mortal’s case, straight from the bedtime stories of his boyhood into filthy human clutches. He hadn’t believed it to be _real_ , yet there it sat bound in Midgardian trickery. And The Fury dared to call it _power_! 

He made his face sneering in case the mortal doctor turned to look at him. “ _Well, I guess that’s worth a look_ ,” he whispered. 

The mortal repeated, obediently. It wouldn’t be hard to convince him that the only way to power the mortal’s attempt of a Bifrost. The tesseract must be missing from the midgardian legends—else they wouldn’t call it simply power. What the mortals called ‘computers’ was a pale copy of the tesseract’s most basic functions. Attached to the mortal’s bifrost, he could transfer his own knowledge of the shadow paths to it. With a mere thought it could let it guide the human machines to do as they intended. 

He could open a path to Asgard. For Thor. For his brother’s precious mortal—his _dýrr._

Convincing the doctor to use the tesseract in the bifrost took weeks. 

His projections felt weak, insubstantial. Snapped violently back into the void when his energy expired, he could no longer feel his form. Though he could pinch the skin of his arm, the pain spread no further that the flesh he inflicted. Without concentrating, he could feel no limbs. 

He was fading away, looking down at his projection while in the mortal world showed him only the flesh he concentrated on—his hands or feet. 

His days were numbered. He was so tempted—to return to Asgard and spend the last of his days watching after his _sváss_ in futile longing. But no—he had made a promise. To himself, at most, but he would reunite the thunderer with his _dýrr_. He would tear the grief from Thor’s face, and the truth was palpable: it would be the last thing he would do. 

If only he could hurry the process up! 

These mortals were consumed with their lust for power. Eventually, he slipped to Doctor Foster’s bed chambers and whispered in her ear while she slept. She went to the doctor the next day, bemoaning the lack of sufficient energy source to power her machines. 

At least his predections of the mortals were accurate. 

The doctor offered the tesseract to the team working on the bifrost, and she had almost wept with gratitude. He’d stepped into the compartment beside the tesseract before they sealed it shut. 

“We’ll run program first,” Doctor Foster told her team. “Don’t engage the landing pad yet.” 

The sounds of movement indicated her team was moving to follow her command and Loki prepared himself as the humming of Midgardian electricity filled the space around him. He formed himself hands and cupped them around the tesseract. It flared to life in his hand, filling the enclosed space with the blue light of pure magic. 

The tesseract _was_ magic, pure magic, concentrated and enfolded within itself, intelligent enough to obey thoughts and spoken requests. Created by his mother—no, by _Friga_ , it had been sent to Midgard to hide it from those who would abuse its potential. At least, those were the stories she had told him—Thor and himself, curled at her feet by the fireplace in the days of their youth. 

“ _Magic can do everything_ ,” Friga had told them, “ _create, change or destroy—one must only learn how to weild it._ ” So had began Loki’s passion for the sorcerer’s arts. 

But one must also have the energy to sustain magic, he thought bitterly as his hands wavered in his distraction. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his fingers through the first layer and gasped at the fire that shot through his veins. 

He cried out in pain, but the noise was lost in the clamour of the machine surrounding him. He persevered, deepening his fingers until he touched the inner box of the tesseract—its true power. 

Touching the core, he felt the pure magic slipping over him and out of him, into the machines. 

_Teach it,_ he thought to the tesseract, _make it a bifrost to Asgard._

The magic flowed through him and into the computer’s basic mind, teaching it the knowledge the mortals hadn’t known how to imput. Loki breathed a sigh of relief, even as Doctor Foster’s panicked voice yelled in the outside chamber “ _there’s a virus in the computer! It’s rewriting our programming!_ ” 

He loosened his concentration on commanding the tesseract, fingers drawing away from the omnipotent core and resting on the first casing. He allowed himself to think what he would do with the magic if he had the time or energy left to give himself a life. 

_I would be Aenir,_ he thought dreamily as he began a gentle ebb back to the void, _I would be myself, with my powers, but I would strip every Jötunn filfth from my being and be Aenir. Native of Asgard. A creature worthy of Thor’s companion._

He slipped away from consciousness just as Doctor Foster screamed to shut down the machine. 

~~~ 

He expected to awaken in the void. The light that stabbed into his skull was confusing and unsettling. Bright blue, the exact shade of Pure Magic. He groaned at the pain in his limbs and panicked when he realised _he could feel._

It had been weeks since he could feel anything without concentrating—he had been fading and now everything was stark and real. The familiar warmth at his fingertips was hard, abut he knew it was yielding. The wires tangled around his limbs were hot with Midgardian electricity, and something was digging uncomfortably into his back. 

All these things felt _real_ and not how his projections usually felt. He looked down at the tesseract—it had not only restored his magic energy, but enhanced it so his projection felt real. 

So long as he stayed touching it, he could keep himself from the void. He could ensure that the mortal’s bifrost suceeded, reunite his _sváss_ with Doctor Foster and spent what was left of his days watching the thunderer and slipping away content. 

So he stayed slumped and tangled inside the machine, hands cupping the tesseract but not reaching into the core. Hours, days, weeks ( _he knew not_ ) later, he heard the grating voice of Thor’s precious mortal. “I don’t understand,” she was complaining, “even _Stark_ checked. There’s no traces of a virus and the program doesn’t resemble a _thing_ we put into it. I’m not even convinced it’s _English_ because it’s certainly not _binary_.” 

“Maybe it was the tesseract,” the voice of the doctor suggested. “It’s Asgardian—maybe it rewrote your programming to correct it.” 

“Can it _do_ that?” She demanded. “It’s just a glowing blue cube of energy!” 

“It’s much more than that,” the doctor murmured. “But I haven’t figured out exactly what.” 

“What do I do?” She begged, pathetic and lost. 

“Test it out.” 

“Test it! What if it destroys the city?” 

“With all the protection in this room? At most we’d destroy the machine.” 

“And kill ourselves!” 

“Would it be worth it?” 

Doctor Foster didn’t answer. 

There were sounds of movement beyond the metal casing of his confinement, tapping of a keyboard. The walls around him began to hum with electricity and he pressed his fingers deep into tesseract—brushing the core and concentrating on the thought: _make it a bifrost. Teach it_. 

He pulled himself closer to the tesseract, pressing his head to a hanging cable and breathing deeply. _Open the bifrost. Reunite my sváss with his dýrr._

“It’s the same readings as my research!” the mortal woman cried, her voice filled with excitement. “It might actually work! Erik it might actually—” 

The rest of her words were drowned out by his own screams. The magic from the tesseract burnt as it channelled through his projection and out into the machine around him. He could _feel_ the energy pooling out through the machine and upwards—above the Midgardian stars and into the familiar paths in the shadow of the Bifrost. And it _burnt._

The power flew above the paths, just underneath the shattered remnants of the broken Bifrost. He felt where it should have deviated but it charged on, flying true to Asgard and opening a portal at the jagged ends of the rainbow bridge. Once it connected, he was forced back into awareness of his own projection. The simulated limbs burnt with lingering pain, and the jagged whimpering torn from his aching throat told him how harsh his absent screams would have been. 

“...must have been the sounds of the tesseract energy,” the doctor was explaining. 

“It _sounded_ like screaming!” Doctor Foster cried, her voice hysterical. 

“Where would it be coming from?” The doctor demanded. 

“Mortals,” a familiar voice greeted. It was blurred and deep beyond baritone. “What business have you opening a path to Asgard?” 

Fire shot through his limbs and he writhed, muscles spasming out of control. His heart was thundering out of control, and even an Asgardian couldn’t survive the physical strain of being conduit to such high energy. 

He was going to die. He was going to die here trapped in the mortal’s trickery, and he would never see his _sváss_ again. He would never know that the mortal’s bifrost was his own actions. The most selfless action he’d ever performed, in attempts to reunite his _sváss_ with his precious mortal. 

He couldn’t. Thor had to know. “Heimdall!” he bellowed, yelling above the noise of the machinery. “Heimdall, tell Thor it was me!” He cried out as the tesseract fired more pain through his system curled in on himself. “Heimdall, tell him I did it for—” 

He broke off when a loud clang echoed through the chamber around him. He looked up for the source of the noise and frowned in confusion at the indent in the roof above him. The clang sounded again and the metal tore, letting in the lifeless white light of the lab above him. 

A hand reached through the new gap—a familiar hand. Worn calluses, recognisable from centuries of study. 

“Thor,” he murmured in disbelief. 

The hand wrenched back the metal and a familiar face peered down at him, desperation painted over his expression. Desperation turned quickly to determination, and he reached down into the bifrost-machine. Strong hands gripped around his torso, wrenching him from the innards of the machine. The cables around him snapped and Loki clenched his hands around the tesseract. He couldn’t let it go—if he didn’t die instantly, he’d slip back into the void. He couldn’t go back to the emptiness. 

He could feel his _sváss_ ’s arms wrapped tightly around him, substantial and caring as it had never been. He gripped the tesseract tighter, not daring to press against the core. He couldn’t go back to only knowing the ghost of a touch from his _sváss,_ stolen from an innocent slumberer dreaming of another _._

He felt the familiar momentum of travelling through the bifrost, his limp form carried in strong, war-honed arms. It had only ever happened once before—a hunting expedition gone wrong. Thor had felt so guilty over it that he had carried Loki back to Asgard in his own arms. 

The air changed, the clean mystic air of Asgard washing into his starved lungs. Lowered to the ground, he opened his eyes and saw the face of his _sváss_ and the familiar skies of the Asgardian night. “Thor,” he murmured, lifting a trembling hand to the stubbled chin of the thunder god. Black started creeping in the edges of his visions, and he knew it would be moments before he slipped back into the void. Even with the tesseract in hand. Even it couldn’t save him now. He dropped the tesseract and lifted his freed hand to cup the other side of his _sváss_ ’ jaw. “My golden Thor.” 

The darkness closed in over the thunderer’s astounded expression. As his awareness slipped away, he heard his _sváss_ bellowing for a healer. 

~~~ 

He woke in his old bedchambers. For the brief few moments in half-awareness, he felt that everything was normal. He planned his day as he rolled over onto his back, releasing the swan-feather pillow he was wont to hold in his sleep. He would break his fast by the kitchens and search out his _sváss_ , find what trivial pursuits the thunderer was intending for the day and (most likely) dissuade him from doing them. He was to be king, he couldn’t continue to act so irresponsibly... 

The illusion shattered when he remembered the failed coronation, and then the whole mess came rushing back. 

Sitting upright in one violent jerk, he fought through the headspin to realise: _he wasn’t back in the void!_

“Careful,” a familiar, soothing voice coaxed. Delicate hands pressed him down into the mattress. “You’ve gone through quite a bit, Prince Loki.” 

“Not your prince,” he snapped angrily, disturbed when his words slurred together in a near-unintelligible mess. “I’m a Jötunn.” 

“There is no sensible way to explain this,” the healer responded uncomfortably. “But you’re not. Or you are no longer.” 

Loki cracked an eye open to glare at the wavering form of the court Healer. “Explain yourself,” he demanded. 

“I’ve been your healer since the Allfather first brought you from the ice wastelands,” the healer explained, “I was one of only three people that knew the truth of your origins. I’ve had to perfect different techniques to heal you. Yet when Thor carried you to me and demanded I heal you, none of those magics worked.” At Loki’s continuing confusion, he explained: “I had to use Aenir techniques, Prince Loki. I don’t know how you’ve done it—but now you are no more Jötunn than Odin himself.” 

“Leave me,” Loki growled in command. The healer bowed and left the room. Loki slumped into the soft mattress of his bed and looked up at the ceiling. He was _Aenir_ , how could that be? Then he remembered, through a haze of current and remembered vagueness—he’d wished himself so while touching the tesseract. He’d thought because he hadn’t actively asked it, his desires would be safe. He had underestimated the powers of the tesseract, and that either spoke of his own stupidity or the might of the object. 

Another thought occured to him, and his eyes flew open before he realised he had closed them. He had been _healed._ The healer had never been able to touch his projections. 

He reached for his magic, buried deep behind his pain and exhaustion. Focussing, he created a projection that loomed over his own bed. He looked gaunt and grey, entirely exhausted—weak and unmoving. The projection fell away and he opened his eyes, staring where he had been standing before. 

It defied all of his accepted rules, the legends and life he knew pointed to the impossibility. He couldn’t be here, Aenir and recovering, when by all logic he should be a dead Jötunn trapped in the void. 

But the healer had seen him—touched him and spoken to him—he couldn’t be in the mirror world. But even as he thought of the echoing dimension, he felt a pathway open up at his fingertips. He slipped through it, and though the air seemed more stiffled he felt he could breathe easier—knowing he was invisible. 

He slipped from the bed and walked outside the bedchambers he’d called his own, down a memorised hallway and stopped before a familiar door. Taking a deep breath, he made himself insubstantial and passed into a room that had no right to be familiar but was. 

Thor stood before the mirror, eyes unfocussed and unseeing. Lost in thought, a rare occasion for the action-driven thunderer. He sunk to the floor beside a golden pillar and curled up beside it. 

Closing his eyes, he created a projection outside the door. Knocking on the carved wood, he waited. The booming voice of his _sváss_ granted him entry and he slipped inside, reassured his clothes were perfect and his stance was confident. He closed the door behind him and waited for Thor to turn around. 

He didn’t. 

“Brother,” the thunderer greeted, his voice flat and unreadable. “What brings you to me now? You should be healing.” 

“You always have underestimated me,” Loki replied coldly. The silence stretched on—tense with something unamed. “I came to thank you for rescuing me from Midgard. You displayed great nobility for saving a traitorous brother—you did not have to. You could have left me.” 

“I could not have,” Thor replied. 

His _sváss_ was stoic today—it made him nervous. The thunder god should be grandstanding, proclaiming his deeds and stroking his own ego. What had changed? 

Finally, his _sváss_ spoke: “you fell.” 

Loki ducked his head, avoided the sight of Thor standing unmoving. He wouldn’t even _look_ at him. “A mistake,” he offered. “I miscalculated. I wanted to return, but couldn’t.” He paused again, waiting for some imput from his _sváss_. When none came, he felt the shame of knowing Thor was disappointed in him. It hurt more than the scorn of the entire Asgard. “I’m going to Odin to submit myself to his mercy,” he decided. He ensured his voice was steady—announcing the fact as if it was a past decision he was reiterating. “There is a chance I will be exiled entirely—sent to the Void or even put to death.” 

“No,” Thor growled. “Brother, don’t say that.” 

“I’m not your brother,” Loki murmured unhappily. 

“You said that before,” his _sváss_ commented. “In the Bifrost, before you fell. Why do you speak such madness?” 

“It is true,” the trickster replied. “The Allfather took a babe from the Jötunheim temple and brought him back to Asgard to raise as his son. I thought you knew—I thought you all knew.” 

“I don’t...” The thunderer broke off, the shoulders tensing. “You tried to destroy your own race,” he said, his voice strained in disbelief. 

“The Jötunn are monsters,” Loki snarled. 

“You’re one of them,” Thor responded quietly. 

“I _was_ ,” Loki responded darkly. “The tesseract was power I misunderestimated. I am Aenir now.” The thunderer didn’t say anything. “Not that it absolves me from my past deeds,” he added humbly. His _sváss_ continued to say nothing, and he suffocated the sigh. Why could he never please him? He bowed deeply. “I have taken up enough of your time. Farewell, Prince Thor.” 

The thunderer didn’t say anything as he turned and left the room. He let the projection slip away and came back into his awareness, head spinning. His breath was harsh and panting, and he could only hope he was far enough away from the mirror that the thunderer couldn’t hear him. 

“You don’t look well, brother.” 

Loki froze, turning his head. His eyes met the intense blue eyes in the mirror and he whimpered low in his throat. “How long?” He asked, throat aching. 

“Since your projection knocked,” Thor answered. “You were barely even breathing. Why would you exhaust yourself so? You should have stayed at rest.” 

Loki closed his eyes and leant his head back against the pillar. He tried to fill his lungs, but he couldn’t seem to get enough air to feed his need. He slid out of the mirror world with a shudder, limbs weak and aching even as his head spun and tipped his sense of direction in a violent vertigo. 

He jerked, throwing his eyes open when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He made out Thor’s face beyond creeping blackness and dark spots. He lifted shaking hands to grip the muscular biceps built from war and weilding Mjolnir. 

The handsome face was carved with concern. “You should not have come, Loki. You need rest.” 

“I have to go to Father,” Loki responded, shaking his head and trying to force himself to his feet. 

“It can wait, Loki,” Thor said vehemently. “You must heal.” 

“I can heal in exile,” Loki snarled. “And if they kill me then it doesn’t matter.” 

“You won’t be executed!” his _sváss_ insisted angrily. “Our father will be compassionate.” 

“Then I will be exiled,” the trickster replied furiously. “Either way I’ll only be delaying the inevitable.” 

“You might not,” the thunderer insisted. 

“Perhaps he’ll banish me to Midgard,” Loki murmured. “Perhaps we might meet by chance when you visit your mortal woman.” 

“He doesn’t judge you as harshly as you do yourself,” Thor growled unhappily. “Nor do I.” 

“Will you forgive me then, Thor?” Loki asked, something tight loosening in his chest. 

“I already have, Loki,” his _sváss_ murmured. “Come, you need your rest. Your punishment will wait.” 

~~~ 

Thor was waiting, dressed in all his armoured splendour, when Loki left his father’s throne room. Loki still felt weak, exhausted from the walk from his chambers to the grand room. But he held a glamour over everything, so he looked exactly as he did before the whole ordeal—tall, confident, a prince of this realm. 

“The verdict?” Thor pressed, clapping his shoulder with a large hand. 

“Isolation,” Loki replied, reeling at the concept. “One hundred years in the Room of Need.” 

“A century!” his _sváss_ exclaimed. “So long.” 

“I thought he’d send me back to the void,” the trickster mumured in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. Only one hundred years and he will welcome back to the court as if nothing ever happened.” He dared to look at the silent thunderer. “I never dared to hope for such leniency.” 

Thor was staring at nothing, expression distant. “What shall I do for a whole century? These months have been unbearable without your presence.” 

Loki allowed the confusion to show on his face as he looked at his brother. He didn’t dare to read the words how he wanted to. “A millenia of my company has climatized you to my presence,” he pointed out. “A century might starve it out of you.” 

Thor was giving him an unhappy look. “I don’t view your presence as an addiction I must feed, Loki. Is it so hard for you to believe that I might actually desire your company?” 

“Against all logic,” the trickster responded. “And the general opinion of the Aenir.” 

Thor’s eyes were cold as he looked at him unwaveringly. “I would strike down anyone who spoke ill of you.” 

The smile crossed Loki’s lips before he had the sense to stop it and as they drew to a stop, he cupped the bearded chin of his _sváss_. “I know you would, Thor. You are loyal to your friends.” 

“You’re not my _friend_ , Loki,” Thor insisted, a now-familiar edge of vehemence in his tone. He had yet to discover what the tone meant, but he supposed he would have a century to contemplate it. 

He gave a rueful smile as the thunderer’s hands grasped his shoulders. “I’m not your brother, Thor,” he reminded the thunderer matter-of-factly. “And what does that leave?” 

Thor looked distressed, but before he could speak, Odin and Friga rounded the corner. Loki ached—he had once thought them mother and father, and now what could he be to them? Friga was weeping silently, aging face lined deeply with grief. 

He found himself stepping away from the desperate grip of his _sváss_ to embrace the woman he had once called mother. He murmured platitudes, reassurances hollow but comforting to the goddess. She released the trickster and stepped into the Allfather’s arms. 

The Allfather opened a door carved in Midgardian ebony. “One hundred years, Loki,” he said majestically, “the room will provide anything you need, but you are entitled to a request before you are sealed within its walls.” 

Loki dared to look to his _sváss_ , took a moment to revel in his selfish desire. According to the honour code, any request he made had to be fulfilled. He took a moment to dream what would happen if he asked for Thor’s company inside the Room of Need. 

Then he saw the grief evident in his _sváss’_ expression and shoved aside the selfish request. “I would like pen and paper,” he requested quietly, “and all the information on the Bifrost that can be gathered.” 

Odin and Friga looked confused, but Thor’s face twisted in pain. Loki turned away to walk dignified into the Room of Need. He turned back once inside the doorway and looked at the family he’d thought was his own. 

Friga was sobbing in Thor’s arms, the thunderer’s head bowed and a curtain of long blond hair falling in front of his face. Odin’s face was carefully blank, but there was something pained in his eyes. “Your research will be delivered as it is gathered. The room will provide for all of your needs—not your desires.” 

Loki bowed and stood back up. There was an intense moment of pause, then Odin began to push the door closed. 

As the wood began to close into its frame, he heard his _sváss_ ’ voice cry out: “No, wait!” 

Loki sobbed and pressed his forehead against the wood. A hundred years away from his _sváss_. A hundred years to design a new Bifrost to fix the most public of his collateral damage. If he couldn’t give them the designs for the new Bifrost the Aenir would never accept his presence back in the palace. 

He turned away from the door and caught sight of the mirror on the left wall. He remembered this hallway outside—a window into the Room of Need for anyone to see the person concealed inside. He whined low in his throat and crossed to the half-silvered mirror. 

He pressed a hand against the cold surface, desperate and reaching out to the world beyond. Unaware of the fact his _sváss_ reached back for him on the other side of the glass. 

~~~ 

Thirty-six thousand, five hundred and twenty-five days. He had dreamt of this moment uncounted times. Any moment now the door would uncatch, leaving him free to roam the world beyond the Room of Need. He glanced at his home of the past hundred years even as he wondered what would be waiting for him on the other side of the door. 

The room was filled with books—any book containing any reference to the Bifrost he had destroyed through his foolish actions. Scrolls too, from the time before Asgard had bound their texts in thick tomes. They were so numerous they barely showed the sturdy table or chair he had frequented, and they even overflowed onto the small bed he had all but neglected. He had avoided slumber at all costs, for sleep led to the tormenting dreams— 

The most common mimicked this moment now—waiting for the door to open and what would be outside the door to greet him. His favourites all included the eager presence of his _sváss_ , and that was the possibility he dwelled on as he stood by the door waiting for it to open. 

In a scroll that detailed the mortal’s successful attempt at their bifrost, it spoke that Thor had been commanded by the Allfather to stay in Midgard. A small note (in what he knew was Heimdall’s hand) noted that Thor had joined with a band of “superhuman” heroes in the name of protection. The team—called the Avengers—was successful in many of their endevours, and Thor had once again become a name of mortal legend. There was no comment on Thor’s romantic fraternization with the people of Midgard and Loki dared to hope that this meant his _sváss_ had no deep relationship with Doctor Foster. 

This hope had given way to many other fantasies, wherein Thor was waiting alone for him outside the open door. The thunderer would brighten to see him, a century’s worth of longing slipping from his posture as he stepped forward and wrapped him in a clinging embrace. He would speak of his loss, and murmur the word _dýrr_ into the trickster’s hair as he held him close and refused to let him go. 

What happened from there was varied, but he had that particular dream many times during the course of his isolation. 

He had began to contemplate the other, less appealing, greetings from the other side of the door when it creaked open. There was silence on the other side of the door, and Loki felt his stomach clench in nerves. There could be no one, this much was true. But his instincts set him on edge, and he lifted the scroll that was clenched in his hand to his lips. 

“For Friga,” he whispered, enchanting a spell around it. No one else but Friga could touch the scroll until she had opened it, and the spell would remain even after his demise. He left it floating in the air 

Trembling with his nerves, he stepped out of the Room of Need. There was a small crowd gathered outside the door—and he had only time to recognise a few familiar faces (Balder, Tyr, Amora, Hermod) before he was engulfed in a familiar blue light. 

The pure magic, according to the unseen caster’s intent, froze the muscles of his form and bound his magic—leaving him immobile and powerless. It was then a woman shrouded stepped forward, out of his sight, and brought a needle to his lips. He screamed in protest, even as Tyr squeezed his lips together and the woman sewed them together with unbreakable elven thread. 

His paralysed muscles did not obey his desperate desire to thrash in their grip, not even his eyes could move away as they stared at the golden ceiling. But they could well, and he could do nothing to stop the tears that slid unbidden down his face. 

Having sealed his lips, the woman stepped away and he felt himself roughly handled in strong arms. He thought for a terrifying moment that it was his _sváss_ that carried him so cruelly from the hallway, but the voice that mocked him belonged to Tyr. 

He recognised the halls they passed, neck uncomfortably craned as they carried him without care through the unchanged palace. He started screaming in his throat as they stepped on to the shattered rainbow bridge and walked to the very end. 

“I’ll live to have no traitor in Asgard!” Balder called angrily. The crowd echoed his cry, and Tyr stepped to the edge of the bridge. He dangled Loki over the void by his wrist, sneering at the lack face that looked up at him with horror-filled eyes. 

The war god leant down even as he hoisted Loki up closer. Hot, stinking breath washing over his face, Loki heard the whispered words: “enjoy the void, brother.” 

Loki had time to think a single desperate word before the war god dangled him back over the edge. _Thor..._

A roar of pure rage echoed across the air, followed by panicked and pained yells above the clanging of meeting weaponry. Tyr stepped quickly away from the edge, dropping Loki in an inelegant slump on the cold, hard surface of the bridge. Head twisted uncomfortably, he saw Thor smash the unyielding head of Mjolnir into the face of his younger and much more boorish brother. Tyr went down, falling to the ground and staying there unmoving and Thor stepped away to engage another in battle. 

Nearly out of his sight he saw Sif and the Warriors Three also battling the crowd as they tried to escape the thunderer’s wrath. The warrior woman threw Amora the Enchantress with a mighty shove, and the woman dropped the tesseract, startled, before careening backwards off the side of the bridge. 

The tesseract landed inches away from the immobile form of Loki and he stared at it hopelessly. The sounds of battle faded away from his awareness, and it was a fright when something came down and smashed the glowing blue cube. Free from enchantment, he followed the line of Mjolnir upwards until he met the blazing eyes of his _sváss_. 

The moment of stillness shattered as surely as the tesseract had and then Thor was upon him, gathering him close into the lap of his crouching form and murmuring desperate words into Loki’s hair and skin. It took some time for the words to sink through his haze: 

“Oh, Loki. My Loki. My _dýrr_.” 

Had his lips been mobile, he would have gaped. Instead he lifted a shaking hand and pulled Thor’s face around into his sight. Fear and anger was slipping away from the thunderer’s face, replacing it with a look of relief and...no, it couldn’t be. 

“My _dýrr_ ,” Thor repeated, “my silvertongued Loki.” 

He moved his free hand up to his lips, gritting his teeth against the pain and he pulled free every stitch. Freed from the cruel trap, he inhaled a breath of Thor’s scent and slumped boneless into the muscular arms. “Thor,” he murmured, “my _sváss_.” 

Unrestrained joy crossed the thunder god’s features, and he was leaning down, taking the injured lips in a gentle kiss. “My Loki,” he murmured, “I had thought I might lose you again.” 

“I’m here, Thor,” Loki reassured him, holding himself close, “I am here.” 

“Yes,” Thor breathed, smiling down at him. “And no one shall ever take you from my side again.” 


End file.
